The Winner's Circle
by dancesabove
Summary: Happiness isn't always a sure thing, but sometimes it just takes one a while to hit his stride.
1. Chapter 1

Title: **The Winner's Circle**

Author: dancesabove

Rating: K+

Content: Family, romance

Disclaimer: The characters in _Foyle's War_ were created by Anthony Horowitz. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.

A/N: Thanks as always to my dear GiuliettaC for wonderful additions/beta work. 

* * *

"Daddy!" The little girl stamped her foot angrily. It made her soft red-gold hair bob in loose curls around her face. Ellie had been unusually short-tempered today, much to the bewilderment of her father. Although he was somewhat amused by her resemblance to her mother when she was annoyed about something, Christopher was relieved to note that bad grace usually lasted only a very short time in both females.

Foyle turned. "What is it now?" he asked humorously.

"_Dis_ place!" the child demanded, pointing at a shop window with a display of draperies and accoutrements of interior decoration.

He wrinkled his brow, perplexed, not having noticed anything in passing that he thought would be of even fleeting interest to his easily distracted daughter. They really did need to be getting home in time for dinner…

Ellie stamped again, and he suppressed a laugh.

"All right, all right!" he strolled back to where she was gazing into the window, her fingers glued to the pane on each side of her head.

_Oh..._ he thought. _So __**that's**__ it._

There stood an Ellie-sized horse, most probably made of plaster, but adorned with some variety of shimmering metallic leaf (yellow foil, perhaps?)—but it looked like a horse of gold. Its red velvet saddle set it off quite splendidly before a red and gold curtain, in which the tiniest suggestion of a horseshoe pattern was evident.

The child looked up at him with sparkling and excited eyes.

"Pretty pony, Daddy!"

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" he said, hand coming down to rest upon the small shoulder as he bent.

Christopher's daughter nodded vigorously. Since her blue eyes had learned to focus, any image of a horse seemed to enchant her—magazine photograph, calendar picture—even the worn-out mare who pulled the milk cart through their part of Hastings. Foyle wondered idly where the closest stables were…

"We'll be late for dinner if we don't hurry up now," he whispered into her ear, lifting the three-year-old and swinging her onto his back before breaking into a gentle play-trot.

Ellie giggled delightedly, her little arms tightening around her father's neck as she joyously accepted him as a substitute steed.

Their neighbourhood, a winding lane only a few hundred yards from the Old Town, was hilly. Christopher was so out of breath as their house hove into view, and his rider so thrilled, that Samantha, waiting anxiously on the front steps, forgave them their several minutes' tardiness for dinner.

"Look at the pair of you!" Grinning, Sam helped Ellie down and, once they were all inside the hallway, patted the child's small behind with an instruction to run along and wash her hands. She flashed a glance at Christopher that seemed to say that he was as hopeless as the child, but then, impulsively, she hugged him. He sighed contentedly in her embrace, happy as he so often was these days: a comfortable home; enjoying his new work; his son safe. And he had a miracle of a wife and a winsome little girl who was _usually_ well behaved.

"I must have a word with you about this young lady," he intoned with pretended gravity, causing a suspicious Ellie to scamper back and push herself between them, determined not to be discussed, or excluded from parental hugging.

Indulgently, the adults parted to make room for their small girl, then, due attention lavished, ushered her towards the dining room. Sam hastened to the kitchen, suddenly remembering the vegetables left simmering on the hob.

"_What_ young lady?" Ellie wanted to know suspiciously, as Christopher lowered her into her little wooden high-chair and pushed her closer to the dining table.

"You know perfectly well 'what young lady'," Sam chimed in as she sailed past with a serving dish of potatoes and placed it on the table.

"Need any help?" Christopher asked her, but she shook her head.

"No, you go on and sit. But you _can_ carve the chicken."

"Mmm! Chicken!" Christopher looked at Ellie with teasing, enlarged eyes and upraised eyebrows. She giggled.

At last Sam brought in some peas and a plate of bread rolls and said, "There!"

Her husband quickly rose to seat her. She shook her head slightly in wonderment at the old-fashioned gallantry—in the four years of their marriage, it had not abated. Sam wagered that not many wives still received such treatment, in their home or out of it. She squelched a sudden smile and turned to Ellie.

"I understand, my girl, that _you_ were not quite as good today as you might have been?"

"Mommy," the tot told her importantly, "you are talking and we haven't even said our prayers."

Sam and Christopher burst out laughing, and their daughter looked at them with bemusement, but also with some measure of naïve delight at having caused their laughter.

"You're perfectly right, sweetheart," her father said, still chuckling. "Your mother sets store by these things. Why don't _you_ give a blessing?"

Not one to shirk a challenge, Ellie made a tight fist round her spoon and screwed her eyes up, concentrating.

"For what we are about to eat…" prompted Sam gently.

"Maider Law Makeus Tooly Fankle!" completed Ellie decisively, regarding the assembled company in triumph.

Christopher's face crumpled into a broad grin that warmed Samantha in places best not mentioned at the dinner table. "Wull, there's my girl!" he widened his eyes. "Where would we be without the law?"

Thereupon he stood and carved the chicken. 

* * *

The mystery of Ellie's grumpy behaviour earlier in the day was somewhat solved by her inability to eat with her usual enthusiasm. Though Sam adjudged it only a mild cold, she read Ellie her favourite book—one with numerous colourful illustrations of horses—and tucked her in a little earlier than usual.

Coming down the stairs as quietly as she could, she found Christopher sitting with a book before the hearth. She had been so stealthy—a new skill acquired since Ellie's birth— that her husband wasn't aware of her as she stood in the frame of the old parlour entryway and watched his half-profile in the mellow light for a moment. He just seemed to get more handsome to her every year, and she especially loved the pensive, almost penetrative cast of his features when he was lost in thought about something.

He had put the book down and leaned forward with splayed hands toward the fireplace, though at this time of year there was no fire. Then Sam felt a leap in her stomach as he suddenly put his head down in his hands.

"Darling!" she hurried to him and knelt beside him. He looked up at her with surprise, a hint of a smile beginning on his lips.

"You looked so forlorn, there, for a moment..." she blustered, sensing that he was all right now… still, the episode had shaken her.

At first Christopher didn't speak, just tilted his head to indicate that she should sit on the settee beside him. Then he smiled at her, a look of love in his eyes.

"It's like this," he began painstakingly, stroking a stray tendril of her light hair back into its upsweep. "Nnnot many men… can say to themselves, as often as I can…, 'I must be the most fortunate man in the world.' But every time I think it, there's a part of me that remembers… hhhow I nearly deprived myself of any of it. And I just get overwhelmed with... I don't know. Something. A sadness for what I would not have had..."

Christopher had looked down, and when he raised his eyes to Sam's she saw tears in them. "Foolishness…" he murmured.

Sam shook her head adamantly and pulled his head to her shoulder. Her hand softly passed over his hair and brow, and they sat for nearly a minute in the evening quiet.

"Christopher."

Something about her tone made him raise his head to look at her again.

"What would you say if I told you we were going to have a baby?" 


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: You know, when I wrote my little story last week, I meant for it to be a one-off; yet I forgot to mark it as Complete. Then I was so touched and inspired by the lovely comments I received, I decided to keep going—and I already have the third installment outlined! I think it helps to keep the chapters quite brief. Thanks to my beta/collaborator, Giulietta C, who always makes it better!

* * *

Andrew Foyle sat gazing out to sea from his third-floor window, chewing thoughtfully on a pencil end. He was endeavouring to write, but it wouldn't do to wake Baby Iain with the clatter of typewriter keys; besides, there was something he found rather soothing about the light scrape of the pencil, especially if its graphite point had a flat side. He liked the way the thickness of the letters varied as he scribbled.

Snoozing in the bottom bureau drawer lay three-month-old Iain Joseph, settled in his nest of little flannel blankets. Ellie was asleep too, this quiet Sunday afternoon, in what had once been Andrew's room.

So he'd seized this moment of quiet to work on an essay for his history tutor. The relative peace of Hastings in March 1947 was a welcome change from the bustle and distractions of post-war Oxford, where both Town _and_ Gown—not just the city, but its student body also—were swollen with the ranks of returned soldiers.

However, looking after his little sister and brother for a long weekend had not proved quite as grand a chance to meditate and concentrate as Andrew might misguidedly have hoped.

Only a month and a half to go, and he'd have his degree at last. If only one of his job prospects would open up, he might be able to provide for…

And just as his thoughts returned softly to the dark liquid eyes of Madhirakshi Raju, he heard a plaintive, sleepy voice from the doorway.

"Andoo."

"Mm! Ellie? Awake already?"

The youngster padded woozily in, knuckles punishingly rubbing her eyes as she yawned. Her elder brother marvelled anew at how tall she seemed for her age; she'd inherited Sam's lanky build. It seemed to him as if she literally added a fraction of an inch every time he glimpsed her.

"Or perhaps not _quite_ awake," Andrew chuckled as he swung her up to his knee.

Ellie eyed him with sober countenance. She was usually a quiet little thing, and he was glad for the low volume of her voice now, lest the infant wake as well.

"I couldn' sleep cos I was thinking," she told him, and once again he found himself charmed at her startling clarity of speech. Not that she didn't have her incoherent moments, usually when giggling and larking about. But when thoughtful, she could be as grave and as concise as a solicitor. It randomly crossed his mind that she might easily _become_ one, should she set it as goal, given the sharp analytical brain of one parent and the practical good sense of the other.

Andrew soothingly rubbed her small back, the brightness of its red jumper almost obscured by his open hand.

"Thinking, or worrying?" He asked the child respectfully.

"Woying?"

"Worrying. It's… Um, well, not being _afraid_, exactly. But not being completely happy. Dad is great at it."

Ellie scrunched her brow and one side of her lips quirked upward slightly.

_Jesus, when she does that she looks just __**like**__ him!_

She shrugged, setting wee gold curls a-bounce. "I _love_ Iain, I _do_…"

Andrew raised his chin and checked on the individual under discussion. Fast asleep.

"He's a good little brother, isn't he?"

Ellie nodded, but still looked pensive.

"But… sometimes they are all busy, and I'm lonely."

The tears in her eyes squeezed Andrew's heart.

"Oh, Ellie." He hugged her. She snuffled a little against the pleasant lightweight flannel of his shirt.

"Babies are…" he frowned. _What were they? _"They need so much attention, and I know it must seem sometimes as if he's getting it all."

Ellie didn't nod this time, but he saw an affirmation in her eyes.

"You know, when I was small like you, and later when I was bigger still, I was the only one. No baby brother or sister, growing up."

Her eyes widened to contemplate such a plight. "Were you lonely, Andoo?"

He crumpled his mouth. "Sometimes. But I don't really remember feeling that way until my mum died. After that I was very lonely. I was a big boy by then, though… Anyway, Ellie, the point is, once Iain's not a tiny baby anymore, you will feel as if Dad and Mum are paying you more attention. Babies are… demanding!"

"What's 'demarding'?"

"They cry and they can't do anything for themselves, so they take up a lot of one's time. Still…" Andrew shifted the coltish three-stone package to his other knee, and gave her his most encouraging grin, "they can be fun to take care of—they have so much to learn, and they do such funny things."

Ellie's eyes danced in spite of herself. "When Mummy left he made a funny sound, and his eyes were ever so big!"

"Perhaps if you helped Mummy take care of him? Do you think she would mind?"

_Mummy,_ he thought with a smirk. How very odd it was to share the reference to "their" mother when said mother was some three months older than he.

Ellie shrugged again, and chewed her lip. "What if I drop him?"

Andrew laughed, which clearly puzzled his serious little sister.

"Mum would probably put him in your arms while you sit down. In time you'll be bigger and it will be easier, even when he grows, too. So you try that," he said decisively, sliding the child down so they could both look down upon a fussily vocalizing, if still asleep, Iain.

* * *

Christopher and Samantha were seated at a table in the slightly damp garden of Hugh Reid's Devon cottage, where—for the first time since Iain's birth—they had come to fish and rest and just be a childless couple for three days, blithely minimizing all the usual worries that accompanied new parenthood.

He laid a warm hand over hers as she fidgeted, and smiled with wry understanding.

"What is it?" he asked gently, whereupon she gave him a sheepish small grin.

"Well… it was lovely of Hugh and Elaine and Andrew to make all this possible, but I can't seem to prevent myself from wanting to telephone Andrew every few hours."

Christopher's lopsided grin made her laugh. He leaned forward, stroking her palm with his thumb, "But you said—"

"I know. I needed some time to _not_ be a mother. And Friday night was…" she blushed and grew a dreamy expression, remembering the honeymoonish spirit of their first night away. Her quiet husband's level of hidden passion still overwhelmed her.

Foyle shut his eyes in pleasure as his own warming recollection rushed over him.

"Mmm." He patted her hand. "Wwell, I know, Darling. We _both_ still fret a little bit. Feel like starting back tonight instead of tomorrow?"

Sam bit her lip, mulling it over. She knew Ellie adored Andrew, and that both children were in safe hands.

"I'm just being silly," she assured him. "What could possibly happen?"


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you, co-writer, GiuC. 'Cause that's what it amounts to! xoxo

* * *

Chapter 3

Christopher came to such an abrupt halt on the threshold of their front door that Sam, head down as she followed him with their smaller bags, bumped squarely into his back. Shaking her head clear like a cartoon character, she peered around his shoulder at whatever had frozen him in his tracks.

That something was a woman in an ornate sari, evidently attempting to soothe a grizzling Iain, by walking up and down the hallway with him in her arms. Now she turned to face them, still cradling their son.

She was stunningly attractive, her deeply caramel colour skin contrasting with the bold blue and gold of the gracefully draping garment she wore. Her glossy black hair was swept back in a modern version of a center-parted single braid coiffure, and between her eyebrows was a dusty-red bindi, a perfect match with her touch of lipstick. Instantly she broke into a wide smile, though the doe-like eyes above it showed concern. She seemed to glide towards them.

"Mr and Mrs Foyle! I am Madhirakshi, a friend of Andrew's from Oxford. I must tell you—and now, please do not panic—but Andrew is out searching for Ellie. We were chattering and only realised, after we hadn't seen her for a few minutes, that she wasn't in the house—and so he is wondering if she has gone for a little walk."

Sam didn't know whether to laugh or cry. On the one hand, her husband was clearly dazzled by the exotic beauty with the cut-glass accent (it bore the merest trace of Hindi), and Sam thought she might just have to step forward and tip his chin up to close his mouth. But her other immediate response was a flurry of fear; _where was their daughter?_ Ellie had never set foot out of the house without adult company, and they had it drilled into her that she wasn't nearly old enough to do so yet.

Holding onto that knowledge granted Ellie's parents some comfort, but in addition, something about Madhirakshi's low, modulated voice was quite calming; still slightly dazed, they let her shepherd them to the settee and sat obediently while she handed Iain to Sam, with the assurance, "I've just changed him."

"I'm going out to look for her," Foyle said gruffly, coming back to earth. He stood and made purposefully for the door, but just as he reached it, it opened slowly to reveal his son. One look at his face told Andrew that his father knew; Foyle in turn felt a disturbing hitch in his chest at the weary, defeated look in his son's eyes.

"Dad… Sam…" he muttered, as in a trance. "Everywhere… looked _every_where—up and down the street, around the church. Where in God's name could she have got to? Please for—oh, I'll never forgive my_self_…" Andrew cast a despairing look across the room at a wide-eyed Madhirakshi, whose hand had crept across her mouth.

Foyle chewed his lip and shut his eyes a moment. This was no time to abandon reason to despair. "We can get help from Milner and Brooke, but for the time being, let's think this out if we can. If she left the house, she must have had some purpose. It's not all that near, but I wonder if she returned to Bowerman's to see the golden horse in the window."

Sam offered faintly, "They finally altered the display last week, but perhaps she went to see whether the horse had come back. Ellie… makes her own little world… " The smallest quaver entered her voice, and she touched her forehead to Iain's. The infant had fallen quiet in his mother's arms, wide, bright eyes alighting on each adult who came near.

"She disappeared so quickly. If only I had some clue where she might go," Andrew fretted. Through all of their minds went the dreadful, unshareable thought that she might have been abducted. Foyle could remember one case in which a distraught mother, whose child had been killed in the attack on Hastings four years before, had coaxed away another family's child. Only after a month's time had they managed to locate a witness whose description led them to the pair in Bristol. And that was a relatively benign outcome… He looked worriedly at Sam, but she was staring at Ellie's rocking horse in the corner.

Madhirakshi spoke thoughtfully. "Think, Andrew: when you spoke to Ellie this morning, did you talk about anywhere you like to visit? Tell her about something extraordinary that happened in a particular place?"

The young man sat and sank his head into his hands. Sam watched as he ran trembling fingers through his hair and found herself thinking (of all things) that his was wavy where his father's curled, and his mother's had been straight. Ellie's curls filled her mind, and her stomach roiled. She took a deep breath and let her fingers ghost over Iain's downy pate.

All at once Andrew's head jerked up. He stared right into the Indian girl's startled eyes, then without a word, he bolted for the hall and raced up the stairs. A moment later the bewildered assembly heard a relieved, "_OH,_ thank God!"

All three (Iain still in Sam's arms) hurried upstairs after him, and when a glance into Christopher and Sam's room yielded nothing, they hastened down the corridor to Ellie's room. No sign of Ellie—only of Andrew, staring out of the window as he vigorously rubbed the back of his neck. Halting beside him, the party followed the direction of his eyes, and there the little girl was, all curled up in the crotch formed by three thick outgrowths of the tree. She was sound asleep.

He turned to his father, horrified. "I was telling her about the time you climbed down the tree to give that constable the slip. And how I used to sneak down it to get out of homework. I didn't know she had a clue how to even open this window, let alone climb through it. But she must have decided to follow our example."

Brushing tears from his eyes, he made to climb through the window, but Foyle gently placed a hand on his arm.

"I'll do it, Andrew."

"Dad—"

"I'll DO it." There was a hard edge to the voice that brooked no argument.

Andrew and Sam exchanged a glance that teetered between excitement and alarm as Foyle shrugged off his jacket and swung one leg after another through the open window and sat on the sill facing out. _We missed this, the last time._

The young man's mind flashed back to Sam that day, how beautiful she'd looked as they walked along the shore and laughed about his father's "escape." She'd been wearing a red jacket, hadn't she? And her hair, an equally warm hue with the sun shining upon it. His eyes drifted to the woman who enchanted him now; gold and sapphire and glossy black hair. No, this time it was more than an enchantment…

Samantha did not miss the look he bestowed upon the young woman, and despite her nerves, she inwardly smiled.

Astride the branch now, Foyle softly called his daughter's name, afraid to startle her. After a few tries it became evident that he'd have to move closer and touch her foot to wake her; moreover, he decided, he didn't want her making the return trip without him.

The two women stood at the sill, watching as he moved along the large limb, his legs dangling. He began a less-than-dignified inching of his backside along it towards the sleeping child, and Sam and Madhirakshi watched with bated breath, till finally Sam could contain herself no longer, and let out an explosive snort of laughter which set Madhirakshi off into a waterfall of giggles. Foyle shot them a faintly annoyed roll of the eyes, but they caught the upward quirk of the lips that signified he was aware of how absurd he must look.

Andrew joined them at the window, his hand stealing around Madhirakshi's waist and pulling her possessively against him. Sam, meanwhile, leant out of the window, knuckles pressed against her teeth.

Presently Foyle found himself beside his little girl. It struck him then, as he observed her small features in repose, how remarkably deep was the sleep of the very young. He reached forward and, in the same moment that he sought to wake her with the contact of his hand, he found himself protectively bracing the small shoulder.

"Ellie? Sweetheart, time to wake up." He spoke so softly that the others heard only his tone. Ellie slept on, her little chest rising and falling peacefully. _Well, it is an exceptional day,_ he reflected: clearest of blue skies above the tree canopy, the garden as quiet as ever, and a soft breeze that meant no errant gulls; they'd all be out at sea riding the currents.

He moved his hand enough to give his daughter's arm the slightest shake. "Elllll-ee," he crooned.

The child opened her eyes slowly, squinting in the sun that shafted through the leaves. After a puzzled blink round, she focused on her father.

"Daddy! What are you doing in a tree?"

"Do y'know, by sheerest coincidence, I was just about to ask you precisely that question?"

Ellie giggled. Daddy said such funny long words sometimes.

Foyle's large hands closed around her fragile ribcage. "What are _you_ doing in a tree?"

"Uhhmm…"

"Got you!" Foyle lifted her against his chest, and with a high-pitched trill of delight, she wrapped her little arms and legs round him so that she was clinging like a monkey.

Samantha, Andrew, and Madhirakshi leant further out the window, trying to catch the ensuing conversation, which lasted for a good while. But it was difficult to make out words: Foyle's lips were pressed against his daughter's ear, and her small hands had wound themselves into his curls.

"Daddy, you've got lambie wool behind your ears!" Ellie informed him gravely.

"Wull, p'raps it's time for a haircut, hmm? Your mommy ought to send me to the barber's?"

"No!" she squealed another giggle, fingers clinging tight enough to make his eyes sting. "Lambie wool is nice."

The final phase of the rescue operation, once it began, went awkwardly but safely forward, with Foyle pushing himself back painstakingly astride the branch. Sam asked in a split-second's eye contact if their visitor would take Iain from her, and with her young son safely in the arms of Madhirakshi, she reached forward as Foyle twisted round and tendered her their daughter over the last foot or so of branch. Ellie soon was followed by her father, widening his eyes at his wife in acknowledgement of the mental strain the escapade had put them under, and wincing slightly as he stood, legs apart, on solid ground.

"Poor dear," Sam whispered in his ear as she deposited Ellie gently on the bedroom carpet. "I'll put some ointment on the sore spot later."

Iain, who had been quite a comfortably ensconced little chap, hadn't enjoyed being shifted one bit, and lifted his voice in strident, wordless protest.

"Oh, I fear he isn't too fond of me!" joshed Madhirakshi as she stroked the baby's wet red cheek.

"Well, he'd better get used to you. Some chaps don't know their luck!" declared Andrew vehemently, and Sam and Christopher each raised an amused eyebrow.

Andrew strode across to Ellie and scooped her up, holding her so tightly that she protested.

"Andoo! Put me down! I'm not a baby!"

"No," he pulled a face at her. "More like a squirrel, miss!"

"Well, she doesn't get it from _my _side of the family," remarked Sam, wryly.

Andrew set Ellie down, and as she scampered to her father, clinging to his trouser leg and looking shyly up at Madhirakshi, he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed and dropped his head in his hands once again, his brush with despair and the release of tension mixing with certain other recurring emotions…

In that instant, Madhirakshi saw that he was holding back tears. His concerned girl moved to stand before him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"It's all right," she soothed both Iain and Andrew. "Ellie's perfectly all right."

Sam leant into her husband and he kissed her cheek. "Wwwull, quite the welcome home, I must say." His eyes crinkled with sheer gratitude towards Madhirakshi. "Wonder if you'd like a detective's job. You ponder things through in just the right way."

She nodded once with a modest smile. "Just an adventurous little girl once, myself," she replied prettily.

Andrew, recovered enough to muster a watery smile, looked up at her with worship in his eyes. Sam, limp with relief in her own right, wondered seriously for a moment whether he'd drop to his knees at the hem of the brocaded sari.

"So, here we all are, safe and sound, with tales to tell!" she grinned mischievously.

TBC…


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: "Write what you know," writers are always advised. And it is a good idea to do that, as it enables you to sound credible as you create (or base stories upon) a fictional world. So just what made me decide to insert into a _Foyle's War_ fanfic an Indian lady love for Andrew? And for that matter, Ellie's enchantment with horses? I know very little about India or horses, and even less about Indian politics of the 1940s (though _Gandhi _is next in our Netflix queue, and before writing this chapter and the last, I watched and read all of _The Jewel in the Crown, Bhowani Junction, _and other films set in India, and did some other reading. And I admittedly love going off on these research tangents).

So I can only offer this caveat as I belatedly give you this new chapter… and earnestly hope you'll feel free to correct me if I go astray. Fortunately I have great beta help from Jewell and additions and beta from GiuC, and even a generous horse-breeding advisor, mohairMK. Thank you, dear friends!

Chapter 4

As Andrew and Madhirakshi explained to Christopher and Sam over a pot of tea, the likeliest reason for Ellie's sudden evaporation would have been her shyness of the lady in the sari. "I could tell she was fascinated," Andrew laughed, "but she also seemed a bit…"

"Well, dumbstruck," supplied the young Indian woman, elegant eyebrows arching as she smiled.

Sam chuckled, tactfully _not_ looking at her husband. "Yes, Ellie _is_ sometimes overwhelmed by things she finds dazzling. How long have you been here in England, Madhirakshi?"

"Please, Mrs Foyle, my friends call me 'Madhi'. Ever so much easier… though my mother scolds that it sounds too much like an Islamic messiah." She rolled her dark eyes prettily into a sidelong glance at Andrew, but Foyle noted a tightening of his son's jaw.

"Very well, Madhi! But only if you call me Sam."

"Thank you, Sam. Well, I am finishing my first year at Oxford in a few months. And though I lived in Calcutta" (she pronounced this _Kolkata,_ as Andrew was getting used to hearing it now) "with my parents until I began my studies, I had visited often. My father is a breeder of horses, you see, and…"

Foyle's eyebrows were the elevated ones this time, and he smiled crookedly. "Ah! Does Ellie know that?"

Madhi shook her head slowly. "But that was in part what Andrew and I were discussing earlier, you see; how much she may enjoy my stories about growing up around them. Papa and his father before him were breeders, and have done much travelling… just now he is consulting with Mrs Kortran about an American breed! He always has loved them and devoted a great deal of attention to his work. I sometimes fear that he is so wrapped up in his horses, he is ignoring the unrest which plagues our country…" A shadow crossed her face.

"My parents are… I have worried about their safety. Although they are a most traditional—and Brahmin—Indian family, my father always valued highly a British education, and is cast in the mould of a British gentleman."

She paused, and as Sam nodded in empathy, Christopher found himself impressed by the girl's lack of loftiness in describing her caste and her privileges. Madhi seemed, above all, troubled and careful in what she told them.

"My own feelings," she went on, "are torn. We are not Anglo-Indian, but in the company of Anglo-Indians I know, I am at ease. My schooling, and my ways, have made things so. I cannot separate those parts of me that are both Indian _and_ English…"

Foyle pursed his lips. "Your Mr Gandhi has a mind to separate those parts of you."

Madhi's eyes lit up at an informed opinion, and the prospect of a small debate. "Oh, but I think the Mahatma is right, Sir, and that India should be its own country."

Sam nodded her encouragement. The subject, until now, had not been one she'd had a personal reason to think much about, but it fitted with her sense of fairness.

"Madhi's parents are another story, though," interjected Andrew.

Madhi lowered her gaze sadly. "Never have they been very political, but my father's general belief is that we have been better off under British rule. Of course it is very helpful that he is of high caste, and can command a measure of respect,"—the young woman paused reflectively, before continuing with a hint of acerbity—"or _seems_ to, from many British clients and friends. But the irony is…" she took a deep breath and glanced worriedly at Andrew. "…my parents remain traditional enough to frown on my… association with Andrew."

Sam nodded slowly as her husband worked his inner cheek. "Have you met them, Andrew?" she asked.

"Not yet," he said, then added darkly, "but there's a visit on the cards."

Foyle canted his head, eyes widening at his son.

"When I am in Oxford, I have my auntie staying with me," Madhi explained. "She is traditionally minded also, which is why you see me dressed like this… My own taste is for European clothing, but Auntie harangues me so much when I wear it, and then, well, _Andrew_ rather likes this, too," she gave a balletic sweep of her hand from shoulder to hip, then, realising what she had let slip, blushed beautifully. Foyle and Sam hid smiles behind their teacups.

Just then, Ellie, who had risen from an imposed nap in a proper bed for an additional hour, entered rubbing her eyes, and clutching a small pale-blue vinyl stuffed horse, complete with painted red bridle and feminine eyelashes. She hovered by her father's knee until he picked her up and sat her between him and Samantha.

"_Who_'s coming, Andoo?" Her small mouth stretched into a yawn. Christopher's finger slipped under her jaw, closing her mouth. "_You'll catch a fly," _he whispered.

"Madhi's parents, Ell. They live in far-off In-JUH." Andrew said this in stentorian, C. Aubrey Smith tones, then attempted a smile over Ellie's delighted giggles.

Once again the little girl was darting bashfully flirtatious glances in Madhirakshi's direction, and the young woman levelled her illuminated smile at the tot.

"You like horses, Ellie?"

The little girl nodded, eyes alight at the expression of interest, and stroked her pony shyly. "This is Philly!"

Madhi clasped her hands together. "She's beautiful. And _what _a clever name!" She nonchalantly brushed invisible lint from her elegant skirts. "Do you know I have been riding since I was _nearly_ as small as you, _Priya_. I had a Manipuri pony when we lived in Calcutta."

Just as Foyle expected, his daughter's saucer eyes sought his. "Ooh, Daddy! The lady had a Manny-pony! Can I…?"

He shook his head imperceptibly, and said firmly, "Not quite yet." But his eyes twinkled.

"Ellie," Madhi reached across to tickle the toy horse's muzzle, setting her wrist bangle jingling. Her eyes gleamed. "Now, I _even _had an uncle in Jodhpur who bred the Marwari horses. I will bring you a photograph. So tall and regal. Their ears do this!" Madhi cupped her hands slightly and held them above her head, fingers touching.

Ellie tried to follow suit, to soft laughs from the family.

"Also, they turn… they swivel!" Madhi rotated her wrists as much as she could and then, with fascinating flexibility, brought the tips of some of her fingers together again.

Ellie was entranced. "Oooh! Can _I_ see a Mar-ee horse?"

Madhi turned to Andrew, who pondered a moment; then offered, "The Oxford polo chaps do stable some, I believe. Witney way."

"Jo-da-poo-ra horses!" chanted Ellie, copying her Indian lady's voice. Her toy horse tucked between her legs, she started bouncing up and down in her seat. "Take me, Andoo, _pleeease!_"

A trip to see the ponies planned for the following weekend, Andrew and his father sat beside the hearth, each savouring a whisky while Sam tackled the washing up. From the other room they could hear Ellie's excited stream of chatter as she sat on a kitchen chair beside the sink, pestering her amused mother with horse-related plans.

Foyle leaned forward, his forearms on his knees, and looked Andrew in the eye.

"When exactly did you realise she'd given her chaperone the slip to join you here?"

Andrew fingered his glass and looked askance. "Not soon enough. That girl can spin a tale like Kipling."

Foyle grinned acknowledgement. "Yeah, well… the pitfalls of attraction. But you and this girl seem to be quite serious about each other—don't you think you'd better learn to play lip service to the culture?" Nothing in his tone denoted disapproval, but his concerns were evident in his steady gaze, and the slight puckering just between his eyes.

Andrew closed his eyes, tilting back his head in a gesture that seemed to combine bliss with weariness. Then he took a sip of his drink and looked steadily at his father again.

"I never would have thought I had a chance with Madhirakshi, Dad. I mean, for all her modern ways, it's just as she said: she comes from a traditional family, and…" Imitating Madhi's imitation of her father, he said in an unexaggerated Indian accent, "'The British are all well and fine I'm sure, but ve vish you to marry inside your own religion.' …Then, too, I'm pushing thirty, and she's only nineteen."

Foyle rolled his eyes and said quietly, "No comment."

"Oh. Yes. Well, same sort of thing: she's uncommonly level-headed and courageous. Do you know, she used to volunteer at a nursery school, and she hid seven children from Muslim insurgents?"

Andrew's father smiled at him. They'd both picked plucky women. "Reckon she and Sam could swap some stories on that score."

TBC…


End file.
